You could have been so much more
by Mariadragwenna
Summary: Tom secretly loved music, especially this Russian waltz, intoxicating and melancholic, which he would have never thought to hear a female voice singing the melody, making it sound like a distant echo. When he discovered the identity of the mysterious woman, he lost his own voice.
1. Prologue

Welcome! Thank you for your interest in my first fanfiction in English. I am not a native English speaker, and I translate this story from the French version to English. Please do not mind too much if you find big mistakes of vocabulary or grammar! I hope you'll like it though. Enjoy!

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 **Prologue**

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" _We learn when we are young, and we understand with age._ " (Marie Von Evner-Eschenbach)

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He killed them, but he was innocent. To the Muggle justice's eyes, to Wizengamot's eyes, to his own eyes, Tom Riddle Jr was only an unfortunate orphan who just discovered, in the Daily Prophet, the murderer act of his uncle on Muggles, human beings without magic, living in a manor in the small village of Little Hangleton.

Tom's comrades – heirs of most of the greatest pure-blood families (with only wizards), or, more rarely, half-bloods (mix of sorcerer blood and Muggle blood) – had shown a sustain attention to the sanguinary case. Slytherin students have been indeed strongly amused by the quadruple murder of Muggles pretending they were nobles and wealthy, before being intrigued by the murderer's name : Morfin Gaunt.

No one ignored that the Gaunts were the only the descendants of co-creator of Hogwarts school Salazar Slytherin, founder of their House. However, the Gaunts have disappeared and, for a long time, pure-blood families considerated them as extinct, ending their sad life in misery and the sore of consanguinity.

Some people deplored the incarceration in Azkaban of the last descendant of the great Salazar, others affirmed that, the Chamber of Secrets being opened once again, another Parselmouth – one who can speak to snakes, inherited gift from Slytherin – must exist. Nevertheless, a few days later all forgot the news item.

During his second year, Tom has discovered his parents' identity, becoming disillusioned when he realised his father was only a common Muggle, _de facto_ hating his own name : he, who was extraordinary, descendant of a prestigious line of wizards, found himself decked out in an ordinary name and a Muggle last name! His father was an nefarious being who dared to abandon his mother, who, even if she was a witch, has been too weak until letting herself die. For him, everything was limpid : a mother, and _a fortiori_ a witch and therefore superior to the rest of humanity, could not die giving birth if she truly loved her child. Tom's existence has made his father disgusted by him, and didn't generate love enough in his mother's heart.

The fault was theirs and only theirs, it was logical. Their fault if he was an orphan, their fault if he didn't have a normal family life, their fault if his childhood had a taste of Hell and haunted his nightmares for so many years, their fault if no one could have been able to explain where his powers came from, and certify that his soul was not possessed by the Demon the zealot directress of the orphanage feared so much, forcing him to go to the church.

His thirst of vengeance, towards all these people who mistreated and hated him, was developing year after year. The teenager was not stupid, he knew he followed the dark paths of Evil Forces, but in his opinion he was not at fault ; the more he sunk, the more he convinced himself that his destiny was to show to the whole world it was wrong to belittle him and ignore his excellent talents. Pure-blood wizards would venerate him and fear him, Muggles and mudbloods would perish.

However, despite this arrogance and this smugness that made him confident, and sometimes annoyed the other Slytherins, Tom observed his comrades and was not ignorant of their family life. If he was interested in noble families – he envied their fortune, their opulent and nearly idle daily life, and their influence on society, but disapproved some of their traditions like the numerous arranged weddings – the heir of Slytherin found himself curious of the students of the other Houses, without paying attention so much to the purity of their blood.

The carefreeness and the debauchery of youth they were the symbols contrasted with nobility and rigor of tone and behaviour of pure-blood Slytherins, and if he was proud to evolve among this social elite, he appreciated Gryffindors' determination, Hufflepuffs' loyalty and Ravenclaws' inexhaustible thirst of knowledge.

Despite him, he liked to imagine himself to escape from his solitude, even for a brief time, to be surrounded by true friends who would appreciate him, respect him with sincerity and listen to him without judgment, with who he would spend pleasant hours in Hogsmeade, drinking sips of butterbeer between two laughs and confessions ; and when holidays would begin, he would take the Hogwarts Express to London, the heart lighted and beating to the idea to see his parents again, who would be proud of their son and marvelled of his progress in magic, encouraging him to stay in Hogwarts to become a Defense against the Dark Forces teacher. And later, he would find a stunning and intelligent witch, pure-blood or half-blood, who would love him and he would love her forever, and with who he would spend hours to debate about the best education to give to their children. He, who didn't know what love was, didn't have a vague or precise idea, stayed persuaded that a child from his own flesh could teach him what this sentiment was.

Yet Tom Riddle would never have anything of this, and he was aware of it. Therefore, he gave himself, body and soul, to his only lover : Hatred. He has been deeply disappointed of the misery in which his uncle spent his sad old age, celebrating his future death with his friend Whisky, and, taking a jewel as a legacy, Tom did not have any scruple to manipulate his memories to make him accuse himself of the murder of the Riddle family.

Oh! He savoured their horrified expressions when he used the Unforgivable spell of death on them! Very soon, the whole magical world would wear this expression when seeing him, and all would despair when hearing his pseudonym – Lord Voldemort – no one would even dare to pronounce!

It was the fifth day of September 1942, prefect Tom Riddle was on his sixteen birthday. He started his sixth year at Hogwarts school of wizardry, killed his father, his paternal grandparents, the domestic, and created his first Horcrux. Not yet adult. Already murderer. Already immortal.

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" _Of all our acts, only those we accomplish for others are truly worth it._ " (Lewis Carroll)


	2. Chapter 1 - My heart opens to your voice

**Chapter 1 : My heart opens to your voice**

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" _The further we look at the past, the further we foresee the future._ " (Winston Churchill)

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Tom hated a lot of things, but the main targets of his hatred remained the Muggles and their world. He hated London, his paternal family, the Wool orphanage where he stayed imprisoned since his birth, the execrable directress who thought he was Satan, and the stupid and cruel children. He abhorred the Muggles' religion thanks to which the adults have tried to "purify" him, and he remained horrified and disgusted at the same time of the way they seemed to _love_ to make war.

Forced to return to the orphanage every summer, Tom made sure he was always informed, and read the news once he found the edition of the newspaper of the day. Those nefarious beings still shone with intelligence succeeding in making all the countries falling under the yoke of armies. The shrill call of sirens announcing the bombardments and the noises of explosions were engraved forever in his memory, and he wished the magical world would never live this nightmare. A thirteen-years-old wizard, studying in third year at Hogwarts, able to defend himself even against Dementors, heir of the great Slytherin, could not decently hiding in the bottom of an anti-shell shelter dug in a garden!

Now Tom was fifteen and six months years old, and he felt inside that his hatred for Muggles increased, nearly making him lose his mind. He didn't feel any remorse to be the murderer of his paternal family, and made his conscience silent convincing himself of a new cause which he would be the new prophet : the extermination of Muggles and mudbloods.

If he was honest with himself, this cause only served to attract potential followers and exalt the traditionalist ideals of Pure-bloods ; it was actually an effective way for getting him access to power. The idea of ruling an army of pure-blood wizards seduced him, and as the magic in their veins was more powerful than the impure-blood wizards, they could see the future without worries.

This is why, in this month of September of 1942, he left his London prison again with relief, curious to see what this sixth year of studies at Hogwarts would reserve. Tom would be in this castle again, where he felt so comfortable and in security, his true home.

He spent hours to explore the corridors, discover even the most hidden secrets, enter discreetly in the library's Reserve to learn the most he could – the manuals of his courses were greatly insufficient for his thirst of knowledge. When he discovered that Salazar Slytherin was his ancestor, and he finally reached up the mystery of the existence and localisation of the Chamber of Secrets, it was as if a part of the castle was his property.

To his joy, his prefect status – got with no difficulty – conferred him a freedom of movement strongly appreciable inside the castle, and he liked to enjoy his authority. Those responsibilities also allowed him to refine his more or less authorised researches in discretion. A way for him to escape the irritating surveillance of Albus Dumbledore, who seemed to beware of him even more since the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and the death of this young girl, Mimi, killed the last year by the Basilisk of Salazar.

Indeed, beyond the fact to be a model student – brilliant, studious, disciplined and respectful, everything the teachers appreciate – known for his intelligence and his exemplary integrity, but also his extreme coldness, Tom had many _human_ qualities : handsomeness, charm, charism, erudition, precise and smooth verb enounced by a suave voice, skills in the art of manipulation. All of this formed an apparent perfection that bewitched the most mistrustful, and even Dumbledore who looked at him suspiciously seemed to trust him enough to let him free.

The unknown-origins-orphan made indeed an effort to look elegant and clean, despite his second-hand clothes betraying his absence of fortune. These clothes enhanced his tall physical though, his slender stature and his cold and dark beauty. The grey and black uniform of Hogwarts contrasted with his pallor almost cadaveric, highlighting the darkness of his eyes. There was no woman or young girl in the school, sometimes more secretly some men, teachers or students, who didn't surprise themselves to admire the traits of his harmonious face, the straight nose of perfect proportions, the certainly soft lips designed with fineness, coloured with an exquisite red, sometimes curved in the shadow of a smile, the dark hair, fine, silky, that undulated gracefully on his forehand... Who could dare to blame him of any fault?

Sit in the Hogwarts Express, in a compartment also occupied by his "close relatives" Abraxas Malfoy, Lucretia Black, Walburga Black, one year older than him, and their brothers and cousins Orion and Cygnus Black entering in third year, Tom observed the English countryside's landscape of innumerable shades of green and grey scrolling behind the window. Lost in his reflexions, he didn't perceive the interrogative looks of his comrades, who were not used to surprise their ambitious friend in this state of thoughtful state. They ignored what perturbated him, as they ignored a murdered was sit by their side.

Those friends nourished the secret hope that at least one of them became elected to collect Tom's secrets, but the young man desperately remained silent. They tried : especially Walburga, daughter of Pollux Black and Irma Crabbe, one of the heirs of the very ancient house Black, attempted to become one day his confident, and she was seduced by his speech on pure-bloods' superiority and by his prestigious blood – because she was one of the privileged to who he confessed his noble ascendance.

Abraxas, representant of the very respected Malfoy line, as illustrious and fortunate as proud and blonde of hair, redoubled of efforts each year to please Tom, and his heart has been inflated of pride when, making resonate in the walls of Slytherin's common room a waltz, composed by a Russian wizard, Tom's look became curious and a spark of approbation furtively appeared in his eyes. Their potions professor, Horace Slughorn, was certainly right : Tom Riddle was promised to a great destiny.

Abraxas ignored how this music reached Tom's heart. He ignored how the notes, assembled in harmony, made sense in the model student's spirit. The intoxicating melody of the Russian waltz remained engraved in Tom's memory, twirling again and again in his mind, and among all the compositions he appreciated, this waltz easily became his favourite music. He would never confess it to anyone, obviously.

For a few weeks though, Tom heard a female voice invade his spirit, his dreams, resonating in his head like an echo, in every room of the orphanage, in every place he could go in London. He was the only one to hear it, he quickly noted.

Yet the former evening, he left the sinister and without decoration dormitory with a certain precipitation, attracting looks from the other teenagers who were not used to see the so cold and reserved "monster" of the orphanage hasten like this – without doubt, he must be impatient to see his demoniac comrades again. But Tom could not sleep of the whole night, the voice having haunted him ; he even heard it when he covered his eyes, it twirled in his mind.

The voice sang the melody of the Russian waltz his heart liked so much ; he easily imagined the blurred face of a woman, eyes in the emptiness, evaporated look, she sang with closed lips, and her song seemed to be a whisper and a cry at the same time, and she danced, twirled, waltzed, with no end. The melody never stopped, letting him little respite, and often he hold his head between his hands with a grimace, thinking he was becoming insane day after day. It was the most plausible explanation, or a malignant wizard enjoyed penetrating his spirit. The heir of Slytherin wondered if the voice reappeared in Hogwarts. He knew he was naïve on this point, because a tiny part of him hoped the magic of the school's walls would protect him from the undesirable intrusion.

\- Is everything fine, Tom ? interrogated Walburga, worried, in a whisper to not precipitating the prefect in his reverie.

A few minutes later, Tom finally reacted, coming back to reality ; he turned his head in an extremely slow movement, and his confused look fixed an invisible point between his comrades, on the door behind them, his eyelids were heavy and inflated and his dark circles were impressive, betraying his exhaustion. He stayed immobile for a few seconds, like a catatonic, before reassuring with the same volume of his friend :

\- Yes, Walburga. Everything is fine.

He simply became mad.

But the situation didn't ameliorate during the following days, nor the weeks. Three months after coming back to school, the voice was still present in Tom's head, during the meals, in the middle of the night, in every room he went to. The singing woman only let respite to him when he had classes and when he studied, therefore he drowned himself in his homework and readings, adding to his tiredness that accumulate day after day. His companions and even the teachers noticed a change in the most brilliant student of Hogwarts, no one could not miss the state of his eyes ; even Dumbledore, in the middle of his suspicions, worried for the health of his student. Tom didn't look like someone who plotted reprehensible acts, but more like someone who enforced himself to face a problem, in secret and alone. Instinct was a sense that never failed Dumbledore.

Christmas holidays just started, seeing the castle of Hogwarts being empty of its students who came back to their families for the festivities. Tom hated Christmas, because those songs reminded him the few masses he was forced to attend in his dark church, those decorations reminded him the cold streets of London and all the shops and colourful lights, and this atmosphere of camaraderie and dripping love nauseated him, rejecting to his face the fact that no one never offered any gift to him, or wished him "Merry Christmas". As good and virtuous Christian, it was not possible to celebrate the birth of the saviour Christ – strangely resurrected – and the feast of family and happiness with an ice man, possessed by Satan.

Then Tom felt in security inside Hogwarts. Some people and a few students also stayed in the castle for these two weeks, not letting him alone and oppressed between these walls. Likewise, even if the livings decide to leave the place, the ghosts were present here forever.

Enjoying the well welcomed calm, the heir of Slytherin moved even more freely, and it accommodated him : therefore the chances to be seen opening the Chamber of Secrets were lesser. Moreover, Dumbledore seemed to be preoccupied by something else, the movement of the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald and the attacks by his followers, perhaps. Magic of Christmas or birthday present in advance, Tom saw himself being absolutely free, with no surveillance.

In this day of twenty-five of December, he would follow the singing voice that, he realised, seemed to be more audible near the toilets for girls. He would finally be able to unravel the mystery of his harasser, and the Basilisk could have a fresh meal, a festive dinner.

Luckily, the ghost of Mimi, the young teenager killed by the eyes of the Basilisk the former year, was not present at his habitual emplacement – one of the cabins of the toilets for girls, making him think she liked to live again her last moments – and then would not be an annoying witness.

Leaning on one of the sinks where the valve was discreetly ornate with small snakes, he whistled a few words in Pastletongue, immediately followed by a thud of mechanical machinery, the valves departing in a gapping hole, revealing a large pipe. Still giving orders in the language, he conjured stairs habitually allowing him to go down to the bottom without encumbers. He closed the entrance immediately and put an unformulated Lumos Maximas on.

A hundred of steps lowered a few minutes later, he found again the well-known way leading to the huge room decorated with gigantic statues of snake heads. The more his steps conducted him there, the more the singing voice became loud to his ears, hammering his head ; and while he was ready scream of rage, he arrived in the room and his eyes immediately perceived a shape on the opposite side of him, a few hundred metres from him. The big silhouette of the Basilisk was situated besides it, immobile, the head on its own curled up body, as if the creature let itself lull by the Russian waltz that threated Tom's sanity.

Approaching with rushed steps, the dark teenager distinguished better the singer : it was a woman, dressed in a long black dress with a round and discreet neckline, the long sleeves flared at elbow level, and the legs were not only hidden by the dark fabric but also by a thick black mist, masking everything until the bottom of the dress, until her feet, as if she floated a few centimetres above the ground.

She had something vaporous, a skin of a phebean clarity, nearly translucid that made her look like a dead, but living enough to not look like a ghost. The idea of a lemure coming to curse him crossed Tom's mind, but the young man pushed it away, finding it absurd. Singing without stopping the melody of the waltz, the woman twirled on herself, as if she wished to expulse something from her body, as if she wanted to inflict herself vertigo. Her movements were not rapid, but a few minutes were necessary for Tom to get a clear image of the unknown face.

She was a very stunning woman, with a hair as dark as his, and the undulations lied down on its entire length. The curls fell gracefully on her shoulders and followed her back, the hair departing from her body following the twirl. Her pale lips, kept closed, were thin and well designed, calling a kiss, and her straight nose was discreet, in harmony with the oval face and slightly sharped at chin level.

The woman kept her eyes open, eyes with heavy and made up eyelids that seemed to look at nothing, black and sad eyes that lose themselves on the emptiness. Tom stopped at respectable distance to observe her better : the unknown woman was the mirror image of him, his female version, and this observation disturbed him.

Jaded and afflicted by exhaustion, his spirit wandered towards suppositions more crazy and irrational than others, even emitting the hypothesis that a parallel universe could exist, like the Muggle world and the magical world, and that himself lived in this parallel world in a female shape. He would have laughed of his own absurdity if he was in full possession of his faculties. The melody of the waltz continued to be sang, as if it escaped from the woman's lips in an invisible trickle of notes, and the latter rolled herself up in this never-ending musical trickle.

Taken aback, Tom finally adressed someone who could give him an answer : whistling in Parseltongue, he asked to the Basilisk the identity of this woman and what the reason of her presence here could be, hinting the question of the way she could have used to enter into the Chamber while he was the last Parselmouth in the wizard world.

However, the creature was not able to give him answers, and the heir of Slytherin let his anger to shoot up, his impulsive character revived by his tiredness. He ordered to the snake to kill the intruder, but to his big surprise the animal didn't grant his request.

\- _Why don't you obey me, Basilisk? Am I not your master?_ he lashed, the virulent words making the language to become guttural.

\- _I ignore the identity of this woman, master_ , the snake retorted with a mix of resentment and irritation, but I cannot do any harm to her. No sound except this chant went out from her throat, then I cannot certify she speaks our tongue, but I feel something inside here ; beyond the physical resemblances with you, her corporal smell is yours, her magical aura is yours, even more powerful and darker. In a way I am unable to explain, she is bounded to you.

A hidden sister?

Slowly approaching towards the still twirling shape, Tom took care of not making abrupt movements. He approached more, his feet delicately settling on the ground with no sound, and when the folds of the dress and the hair ends brushed him, he reached out his arms to catch the woman's. Surprisingly, no shock was seen on her face, no move was sketched to escape his fists firmly maintaining her. Her dance, that looked before like a call to _goétie_ , was stopped.

When Tom forced the unknown person to raise her eyes to his own face, the melody she was still singing transformed : her breath becoming faster, sound, jerky, her eyes widing, her lips, starting to shake and draw a wry smile, let escape another interpretation of the Russian waltz. The delicate chant was transformed in a desperate thrène, and for one second Tom believed this change of behaviour was explained by his person, as if the woman recognised him, as if she feared to see him and panicked to be under his threat.

Before he could enounce the sketch of a question, the ghostly woman suddenly kept silent. Weeks, days, minutes earlier, Tom would have been the most relieved man in the world to be finally rid of the voice as beautiful as nefarious, but in the present context he worried instead of the sudden dumbness of his new interlocutor : yes, she recognised him.

Feeling a slight pressure in the hollow of his right hand, the prefect freed the woman's left hand, who slowly raised it to his face, before delicately pose her palm on his cheek. Her fingers were frozen, and still the contact of this hand was burning Tom. As incongruous this situation could be, never a woman already had a soft gesture on him like this one, and he deduced this woman knew him and appreciated him. Why ?

The dark eyes met their twins. They ran through the whole male face, as one could admire an artwork. When her pink lips slightly parted, Tom lowered his eyes on them, impatient to know the words they could form. But he was surprised when he saw the tip of a tongue to nest between the rows of teeth, and a weak whistle but perfectly audible could be heard :

\- _Peer at_ _me_ , she whispered in Parseltongue, softly, intimately, as if she was afraid her words could be interpreted as orders, whereas she was not in right to emit some.

Therefore, in an access of lucidity as sudden as unexpected, Tom understood : this woman was one of his family, and she asked him, in their ancestor Salazar Slytherin's language, to directly rummage in her memory to get the answers he greedily waited for. He did not know what secrets he'd discover.

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" _R_ _elive the past, only if you use it to build the future._ " (Domenico Cieri Estrada)


	3. Chapter 2 - Having a daughter

**Chapter 2 : Having a daughter**

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" _There is no doubt that is around the family and the home that all the greatest virtues, the most dominating virtues of human, are created, strengthened and maintained_." (Winston Churchill)

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Tom's black eyes travelled once again the face of this mysterious woman, who, he was certain, was a part of his family. This certainty intrigued and troubled him : even if the Gaunts were known to be the only descendants of Salazar Slytherin, in the absolute it was not impossible that the founder of Hogwarts would have had other descendants, perharps even more hidden ; maybe they have travelled, or changed their name. Nevertheless, a distant cousin would not physically look like him so mouch. This ghostly unknown woman had his hair, his eyes, his features. What distant cousins could present so the same genetics ?

Willing to get answers, he replied to this woman's request, who stared at him with an expression close to adoration. Tom hesitated a few seconds, more by fear to discover the offered memories than by embarrassment to breach them. Over the yes, the most brilliant student of Hogwarts have developed his gift of Legilimency, so much his presence was not detectable anymore, and he appreciated to punctually use it on some teachers, Horace Slughorn first. But Tom never saw the whole life of a person this way, as he was not interested, and because this spell would maybe demand too much energy.

Finally decided, the teenager delicately took the face of the dark-haired woman between his palms, touching her temples with the tip of his fingers. The spell was softly whispered, and the two bounded people closed their eyes. A sort of breeze came to caress their bodies, and they felt their spirits aspirated by an external force, progressively leaving the reality. Behind their eyelids, a black and thin smoke appeared, disclosing at last dark and blurred colours, finally revealing shapes outlines of which became clearer. A few seconds were necessary to Tom to realise he had literally dived into the woman's memories ; he was physically there, invisible, like in a Pensieve – this way to watch memories was described in one the books he looked through.

Tom had the very bad feeling he would not like the scenes that would be revealed to him.

* * *

 _August 15th, 1971_.

A young twenty-years-old woman was lying in a four poster bed, sculpted in ebony, with ecru white sheets that had just been changed, replacing the former laundry stained with blood. In this middle of August, temperature was elevated in this dark bedroom, covered by green tapestry and numerous paintings by masters and mirrors. The lights were feeble, and some Elves just finished to be busy around the bed, main piece of furniture of the room.

The woman was half sat ; dark, curled and thick hair, eyelids more heavy than usual, a thin smile on her lips betraying her exhaustion, she looked at the new born she just gave birth, comfortably snuggled in her arms. Above her, a tall man, of the same, as dark-haired as her, with an impressing stature and thick beard, delicately applied a damp and fresh cloth on the forehand of the one, who, logically, must be his spouse.

The door suddenly opened, revealing a couple even more younger ; the man was as blonde as the woman, a nearly white platinum blonde – it had to be the Malfoy couple, as the wizards with this colour of hair were rare. The two had a straight body holding and a proud face, dressed elegantly with the most beautiful fabrics, and an expression of impatience mixed with joy appeared on their two faces. The woman hastily stepped forward the bed, her eyes not looking away from the new mother and the sleeping child.

"Sister mine, she exclaimed with emotion, what a joy, what happiness, congratulations! The mixture between Black's blood and Lestrange's can only result in a superb child : is it a daughter or a son ?

\- Thank you, Cissy. It's a daughter, the dark-haired woman informed with an arrogant little smirk.

\- A Lestrange heir, this is a great pride, Rodolphus, the blond man commented, slightly tilting his head, sign of approbation.

\- May you already think about marrying her to you future son, if you have one, Lucius, the named Rodolphus responded, incisive, a false and twitchy smile on his lips."

The named blonde Lucius, had a rictus, a grin cutting with his usual coldness on his face. His efforts to seem to warmly welcome this birth were minimal : respecting the Lestrange spouses for their pure blood, and because the dark-haired woman, Bellatrix Black, was the sister of his own fiancée, Narcisa, Lucius did not appreciate them. Without doubt, the light of madness in their eyes was the reason why.

Indeed, the two couples, beyond their family relationship by marriage, embraced the ideology of the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, who imposed his power on the British magical society for more than ten years. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, whose marriage was soon planned, already behaved as a real married couple, and were busy to manage their business and maintain the prestige of the very old Houses Black and Malfoy : influent, wealthy, noble look, they counted among their contacts all the people who evolved in the high spheres of the British society.

Then, if the young blonde man went on mission not very often for the moment because he did not join the obscure ranks, and his fiancée did not want to be officially a part of it, Bellatrix Black and her husband Rodolphus Lestrange, the new parents, whom the soul was as dark as their hair and their eyes, counted among the most loyal servants of the Dark Lord, fighting under his orders, raising with pride their Dark Mark tattooed on their left arm, a mark of servitude and loyalty representing a black skull, where from a snake seeming nearly alive extricated itself.

Since their enrolment in the murky army, the "Deathaters", shortly after the end of their studies at Hogwarts and only a few weeks after their marriage, the wife and the husband shone with their success in their missions given and their devotion to their Master, the woman proving herself better and receiving the favours of the Dark Lord more often than anyone else.

Rodolphus, whose the joy seemed to be nearly forced, stood straight beside the marital bed and barely looked at the new born, answered to Lucius with a similar smirk. And for good reason, only three people knew the truth : the child was a daughter indeed. But not his.

* * *

"Morgana, the man declared with a categorical tone. Her name will be Morgana Lestrange."

Bellatrix bowed her head to show her submission. The willing of her Master was the law, and no one could object or provides a critique.

"This child will not bear my name, Bella, she is your daughter, and officially the one of Rodolphus. It would be unfortunate the shame comes down on you and your family if a different information falls in other ears.

\- My Lord, I am aware of that, but I will always remain proud to have given you a heir, she is yours now.

\- No sentimentalism. Bella, the "Lord" drily reminded. You are young and fiery, I will not deny you your mother role, but I expect from you to accomplish the missions I will confide you.

\- And I will satisfy you beyond your hopes, my Lord ! the young Lestrange spouse approved with a passionate voice, this time bowing nearly the totality of her body."

The Dark Lord dismissed her, requiring to be alone with his daughter – because he was indeed the true father of the child – and the Deatheater left the room with a smile, happy that the birth of the so-named Morgana delighted her Master she loved so much.

Once the door closed again, the latter sat down on one of the imposing and comfortable armchairs of the small living room of the Lestrange's manor, delicately holding the child – his daughter – in the crook of his arms. She was sleeping, sweetly, silently, seeming so small in the big and warm arms of her father.

The man, now out of sight, let escape a febrile sigh, and his hands slightly shaked, for the first insecure, not sure of what he had to do. But when the child moved in his embrace, he felt his doubts flying away. When she grabbed a section of his gown, he ignored the meaning of her gesture, because he did not know if it was a desire of security, or a willing to hold on to the man her subconscious recognised as her father. The Dark Lord leaned his head on her daughter, getting close to her as studying better her features, her small body. Soon a strand got loose from his dark and slightly curled hair, and the baby, feeling the warm breath and the prickle of the strand of hair, slowly woke up. Her eyelids flitted with slowness, her gaze directly settled on her father's face, and the man felt his heart beating faster, as those eyes were familiar, he recognised them : they was his, those he had before they became red – but this unusual coloration did not seem to frighten the new born. With eyes as black as the hair she already possessed, beautiful, almond-shaped, framed by lashes promising to be much longer with age – and surmounted by heavy eyelids, characteristics of her mother – the child, he was sure, would be in a few years his exact copy, au féminin. Her true parentage would be difficult to dissimulate, but strangely at this moment, the man did not mind at all.

The second fist of the little Morgana raised to grip the strand of hair that dangled above her, and at her father's big surprise, she pulled with a strength unsuspected from a few days born baby. Watching the man's eyes going wide, the child offered a huge smile and emitted a crystalline chirping, typically childish, that made the ice imprisoning the Dark Lord's heart melt. An irresistible impulse overwhelmed him, he leaned more, and made his nose touch her daughter's tiny one, in a tender gesture he surely executed for the first time of his life : the effect was immediate, and the baby laughed again with all her heart.

The dark sorcerer felt his thin and red lips stretch, his white teeth lighting a dazzling smile. The softest he could, he whispered his first words :

"Good morning, Morgana. My name is Tom Riddle, and I am your father."

Hearing this, the black eyes scrutinized him, and, as if she was satisfied, the little child exclaimed a joyful "Ha!" that sounded like an approval.

Tom embraced the baby tighter, and his heart warmed : he was secretly father, he had a heir to teach everything and speak Parseltongue with, now he possessed a reason to see the future with hope. He was not alone anymore.

* * *

The glass broke.

"Oops" the four-years-old little girl said, freezing her hands, her neck immediately hunching her frail shoulders in shock, half-open lips and wide eyes, as if she feared the reprimands for her clumsiness.

"Morgana, be careful !" a masculine voice behind her reprimanded.

"Forgive me, my Lord !" the child apologised with a little voice, her head lowered to the ground in a childish expression of culpability.

Morgana called the Dark Lord "My Lord", because for her Rodolphus Lestrange was her father, even if she felt a connexion strange and intense at the same time with this man she found pleasant to look at : tall and impressive, handsome with his harmonious features and waved hair, mesmerising with his black eyes slightly carmine and his deep and suave male voice, charming with his delicate and graceful gestures, enhancing white hands with long fingers that were able to cast any possible spell. The little girl did not understand the real meaning behing the word "Lord", but she knew the man was called so, and in her mind it was not surprising, because it perfectly reflected her image of a witchking, like in the tales.

The Dark Lord, busy to quietly read, discreetly sighed. Her daughter already knew how to read, speak well, and started to master the alphabet, but her magical powers were still in their infant stage. She was a very pretty little girl, her black hair falling on her shoulders in cascade of undulations, always smiling, watching the world with sparkling black eyes, a crystalline slight laughter always there and a curiosity only equalling her intelligence.

Tom repaired the broken glass with a mechanical movement of his first, and ordered the child to leave the room to join her preceptor : learn, learn, learn, always, it was the only way to reach something.

Morgana was the only child among all these Deatheaters. When she asked her parents if they were other children of her age among their entourage, they visibly stiffen, as if the question disturbed them and should not have been put. Then the little girl never asked again.

She would have like to play a little bit with someone, she did not know what, but she wanted to escape from her books, think about something else than her preceptors' lessons, be busy in this big empty mansion while her parents left for a mission. Sometimes the Dark Lord came to the manor, even if the reason of his visits was unclear, and her aunt Narcissa often took care of her, bringing Dobby, the house elf of the Malfoy family, to distract her a little bit. Despite this, Morgana really felt alone. Therefore, she practiced her magic all theday long, at risk of causing an accident ; she lost herself in music, never leaving her violin her parents gave her, and she constantly worked until the notes she produces became less sour.

Her mother Bellatrix educated strictly, like a princess of the most royal blood, and her father Rodolphus taught her the pure blood wizards' values. Private teachers taught ner necessary knowledge for a young girl of her prestige, like the basis of Magic, the genealogy of pure blood wizards families, nicknamed the "Twenty-eight Sacred" which she was part, the history of British and European wizards ; also they delivered her lessons of manners, music and dance, but she also learned elocution and notions of general knowledge, intellectual thought and politics – the Dark Lord had mysteriously insisted on those points.

One day in December, Bellatrix confessed to her daughter news which delighted her, and her face lighted up so much she exulted :

"Morgana Lestrange, my child. It is time for you to know your secret, or confirm the suspicions you may have had. You are a Black. But you also are the daughter of the Dark Lord, our Master, and then the descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Your blood is the most powerful and prestigious ever." Bellatrix affirmed to her six-years-old daughter, the tone categorical and filled with a pride perhaps too much exacerbated.

However, the Dark Lord did not recognised her as his daughter, because if so she would become illegitimate and potentially susceptible to be disinherite. The news would indeed not please Cygnus and Dorea, and Rodolphus' parents. Even Walburga Black, Bellatrix' aunt, yet friend of Tom at Hogwarts, would scream her dissatisfaction to see her niece guilty of adultery. The scandal would be even more important if the impurity of her blood was known, as Tom was the only one to know he was, in fact, a half-blood.

This day, when she learned the Master she admired so much, was actually her father, the little Morgana seemed to have received her Christmas gifts in advance. She regained some energy, her gestures became keen, and the stars did not leave her eyes. The Lord ! Her father ! She knew it !

Luckily, the Dark Lord planned to come to the Lestrange Manor, because Bellatrix, without doubt, could not have revealed their secret without his authorisation, and he only waited for a few minutes in the small living room before seeing an overexcited child. Morgana, the hand raised and on the handle, remained frozen on the doorstep, staring with big eyes, a smile lighting her baby face, the man she was forever bounded with. She closed the door, in a trembling gesture betraying her overflows of enthusiasm, and, with pure innocence, impinged herself upon her Master, hanging on to his legs, shoutint "Papa !" – because Rodolphus would be the one to be called "Father".

Tom was not surprised by the impulsive and affectionate behaviour of the little girl. Legs still imprisoned – her daughter was a real Body-bind curse – he leaned on the child and put his two hands on her head, in a strange and uncomfortable embrace but pleasant still. With this gesture, not natural at all for him, Tom reached the maximum of tenderness he was certainly capable.

"Now, I understand why I can communicate with snakes, like you !" Morgana exclaimed in a blissful tone, rising her eyes to her father to check if he was pleased by the news, hoping he was proud of her.

\- Really? You are a Parselmouth too, like me.

\- Yes. So, me too, I am the descendant of Slytherin?

\- You are my daughter, so I bequeathed you my heritage, my blood and my gifts, the Dark Lord informed her with a smile curving the corner of his lips."

Freeing his legs, the wizard headed toward a big black armchair, tastefully embroidered with silver thread, leading his daughter with him, putting his hand on her back. He lifted her to place her on one his thighs, until she was comfortably sat and was able to look at him and talk without training her neck too much.

"You must never talk about your Parselmouth gift to anyone, or speak it. Communicate with snakes is an extremely rare gift, us and our ancestors are the only known representants. Anybody would understand the link between you and me, and this should never happen."

Morgana nodded, perceiving the importance of this secret that seemed to make her father concerned.

"How did you discover your gifts and powers ?" she interrogated.

And without understanding what he was doing, without wondering why he revealed himself so, Tom briefly shared her childhood with her daughter : the difference widening as he grew up, the mistrust and fear from the others for this taciturn child, too silent, too clever, the insults launched to this monster possessed by Satan, the pride when he learned he was extraordinary and not an insane child intended for the asylum, the enthusiasm and admiration when he discovered magic, but also the disillusion when he was ignored and denigrated by the noble pure blood students of Slytherin, the hatred towards the Muggles growing in him, his hatred towards himself for being a half-blood, and his infernal and unstoppable descent into the dark side of magic. So many things that nobody knew and he never confessed.

Once he finished, Tom realised he dived into his memories, momentarily leaving the real world, and he discovered that his daughter put her head between his shoulder and his chest, the eyes lowered as if she was sleeping, a sad expression on her face. Not hearing the deep and so beautiful voice of her father, the child awakened from her torpor, rising her dark eyes, her eyelashes imprisoned some tears. For a long time, she looked at the smooth face without default of her dad, her thin lips were pinched against each other, the nose she wanted, in a childish way, to touch, his face so gaunt of cheek bringing out his cheekbones and gave an harmonious shape, the long eyelashes extending his eyelids did not rise yet, and this strand of hair falling on his forehand, driving her crazy, that she always wanted to pull. At her age, Morgana did not know what the beauty of man meant, but she was able to say that the Dark Lord was handsome, and she always stared at him like one could admire an artwork he loved.

"Me, I love you, Papa" she said, without realising her familiarity, with a soft voice full of conviction, trying to hug her father with her small arms that only reached the opposite shoulder.

Only the silence answered, because Tom's thoughts froze in her head as the not yet formulated words remained trapped in his throat. The short sentence of his daughter did not reminisce anything for him, except some clichés and foreign notions, but something in his heart reacted without he could prevent or identify it.

"You won't abandon me?" she questioned with a genuine concern hiding some hope.

Tom raised a surprised eyebrow, he did not expect such a question, and he knew his story moved his daughter and found a resonance inside her, despite her young age and the fact she certainly did not understand everything.

"No, I won't abandon you, Morgana" he assured, unshaking voice, while he absolutely did not know what he would be able to do in the future.

\- _Promised_ ? the little girl insisted in Parsletongue.

\- _Promised_.

* * *

"My Lord, forgive my insolence, but I really wish to insist.

\- Bella, what is the point of making your daughter attend the executions of Muggles?"

What would become the first war of wizards did not spare anyone, and would be considered as the darkest era of the contemporary history of Magic, exceeded the records of violence and barbary. The Dark Lord was top-heavy with power, his troops spreading beyond the British pure blood wizards alone, and security became the first preoccupation of the sorcerers. To the deadly attacks of Deatheaters answered the non-limits violence of the Ministry of Magic and its Aurors – many of them were members of the Order of the Phoenix, an organisation created by Dumbledore, gathering all the wizards wanting to fight against the Dark Forces.

In this Manichean world presented in a shortened way by the British and European press, the acts of the two sides oversteps the limits of Law and morality ; the assassinations were as frequent as the arrests, and the use of Veritaserum was often accompanied by tortures, rivalling the ingenuity and cruelty which had to envy nothing to the American MACUSA's methods.

The Dark Lord did not care about what his Deatheaters thought about this, at the contrary the war seemed to awakened in them a sort of animal instinct ; the executions of Muggles were common to "set an example", but only those who wanted attended, and never the question of the presence of a child has been raised hitherto.

Especially if his own daughter was involved.

Morgana was indeed too quick, with a personality too warm and good to satisfy Bellatrix, who claimed that her daughter would never become a real lady worthy of the name Black, and if Tom also noticed that, he considered this behaviour was normal for a child. Did Bellatrix want that a little girl qualifies her reactions by attending very early the ordinary actions of their war?

And Lord Voldemort let himself be convinced.

* * *

"It is unacceptable ! I knew this kid would cause us problems one day, as if he had not ashamed our family enough by being sorted to Gryffindor! Leaving from home like that, with his revolutionary ideas in his mind! I am still happy he joined the Potter, they are not the most acceptable pure blood wizards, but at least they are, even if I heard that their son laid his eyes upon a Mudblood. Now we only have our formidable Regulus to keep a minimum of honnor."

Morgana still heard her great-aunt Walburga screaming those words (it seemed she spent the majority of her time to scream), denigrating her son Sirius and ending to talk about him as if he was not a part of the family anymore, emphasizing the qualities of his second son, Regulus. Sirius, the eldest of Walburga's children and his cousin Orion Black, has indeed decided to leave his stuffy family home to join his best friend, James Potter, not able to bear the supremacist and extreme ideas of his family full of "freaks" – his own words – who supported, even joined, the Dark Lord.

Alone, in her bed, between two nightmares where corpses of Muggles fell dead on the ground after having been copiously tortured for many of them, some even burned alive, Morgana shuddered, horrified as if she would be, like Sirius, disinherited and denied by her mother and her two fathers.

* * *

" _All things truly wicked start from an innocence._ " (Ernest Hemingway)


End file.
